


Five things that probably didn't happen after Nick Grimshaw played football

by becka



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: 5 Times, Injury, M/M, Painkillers, Phone Calls & Telephones, Phone Sex, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1326217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/pseuds/becka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cast your minds back to Nick's first football match against Olly Murs last August. He hurt his foot and texted his friends and colleagues incoherently from A&E. Here are some other things he probably didn't do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five things that probably didn't happen after Nick Grimshaw played football

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by the fabulous [balefully](http://archiveofourown.org/users/balefully).
> 
> This is a work of fiction. No harm or offense intended.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://realmenwearpuppypants.tumblr.com/).

1.

After the "Hour 4 in A&E" tweet, Harry sent Nick an "all you all right? :(" text. But Nick was probably getting those from everyone he knew right around then, and Harry wasn't totally shocked when he didn't make into onto the list of people Nick texted back. He is more shocked by the vibrating of his phone in his pocket as he's getting ready to go out to dinner and he drags it out to see Nick's name. He answers, counting out the time difference on his fingers. "Nick? Isn't it 3 in the morning there?"

"Yes," says Nick. He's all muffled, and Harry presses his phone to his ear to hear better.

He sits down on the end of the bed, and when Nick doesn't say anything else, he asks, "Are you all right?"

"I have a sports injury," says Nick. "I'm very manly."

"Of course," agrees Harry. "You have more chest hair than I ever will as well. Very manly."

"I can't call anyone else. It's three in the morning. I'll need to still have friends tomorrow."

"I'm glad you called me," Harry says. He takes the phone away from his ear to text Lou. "Be down soon," the text says. Then he curls up against the pillows to listen to Nick breathe. "So you hurt your foot?"

"I tore a thing. Ligament. Tendon. Foot thing. Horrible. I didn't know a foot could feel so bad. I nearly asked them to just chop it off, only I was afraid they'd take me seriously."

"You'd have to get a really cool prosthetic. Or a wooden leg. Like a pirate."

"Plundering booty would be nice," says Nick. "I'm meant to go to Ibiza this weekend. I'm meant to be raving and showing off my football-toned beach body. And now I've got this bloody boot on my foot like the world's saddest astronaut."

"I'm sorry," says Harry. "But think of all the sympathetic cooing." He closes his eyes. He likes the sound of Nick's voice, just for him, not on the radio. It’s been too long since he heard it, or maybe it just feels that way when they’re traveling thousands of miles each week. "Do you have something for the pain? Codeine or something?"

"Loads," says Nick. "Still bloody hurts. How's America?"

"Big. Weather's good. I went out golfing today. There's this really nice course, like, on the water, so we went out and played. I only hit my ball into the sea once. And there was wind. So, like, I don't think it was all my fault. That's a six-stroke penalty though." He tails off with, "So I didn't do all that well. Over all." Nick doesn’t say anything in reply, but sometimes that happens, when Harry’s trying to tell a story.

"How was football?" Harry asks after a while. "Before you hurt yourself?"

"We were shit," Nick says. "My side. I was in goal, which was a mistake. And not mine either. The team all decided while I was doing radio things."

"You hurt your foot in goal?" asks Harry incredulously before realizing how that sounds. "Sorry. I just meant, like..."

"I'm very talented and original," says Nick, snippy. "I found a way."

"Tell me about the match then. Tell me about your originality and talent."

"You're humouring me," Nick says sadly.

"You called me at 3 in the morning, Grimmy. Tell me about the match."

Nick's accounting is slurry, out of order, one goal after another and a load of grumbling about Olly Murs, and Harry has trouble keeping it all straight. After a random pause where Nick spaces out mid-sentence, Harry says, "Is this what it's like when I tell you stories all the time?"

"Yes," says Nick. "And now I've completely forgotten what I was going to say." The silence is long, but Harry can still hear him breathing, both of them breathing together across eight timezones. "I miss you, Harold," Nick says finally.

Harry's chest fills up with warmth. "I miss you, too."

2.

Are you all right?? Harry texts, and it’s nearly midnight in Britain, but apparently that doesn’t matter.

Wouldnt you like to no? Nick texts back immediately. Which is odd, even for Nick.

Yes..?? that's why i asked :)

Ask olly hotmurs then. hell tell yo.

If I knew Olly murs.. I would! besides he didn’t spend 4 hrs in a&e tonite

I’ve seen your phone harry styles. Don’t lie tone.

Harry nearly goes on the defensive in return because honestly, having got Olly’s number off Niall doesn’t make them best mates or anything. But he thinks better of it. are you really angry? did i do something wrong? 

He gets back four texts in quick succession, laughing in relief as he reads them through.

Noo. Half mad with pain and Kodaline. need a cuddle. :(

*kodeine

*codeine

Need cuddle and new autocorrect. :(

Harry sends back a whole line of little hugging emojis and Miss you.xx

The time between texts is longer this time. miss you, Nick says eventually, like he thought about saying something else first and deleted it out. Harry wishes he knew what that unsent message would have been.

3.

Harry sees Nick tweeting about being in A&E, and for a moment he panics, thinks of ringing for the reassurance of Nick's voice. But they don't have that kind of friendship, not now, not anymore. Instead he types out a text that says, Feel better soon !xx, then thinks better of the kisses and deletes them lest Nick get the wrong idea. It doesn't matter anyway. Nick doesn't reply, just like he hasn't replied to Harry's last three messages. Maybe when Harry gets home, things will be different, but as he looks at the string of unanswered texts, he thinks maybe not.

4.

“Hiya, popstar,” comes Nick’s voice down the phone, and he sounds the way he does when he’s drunk sometimes, slightly slurred and more than slightly belligerent. He repeats “popstar” a few more times, smacking his lips obnoxiously on the P. Harry’s glad for it anyway.

“Hey, Nick,” says Harry. “How are you feeling?” It’s afternoon in California, but it must be late back home. He tried not answering the phone, spent all of seven seconds thinking that maybe this is his chance to ignore it, leave Nick out of his life for once. But he can’t do it, never could if he’s honest. Especially not now that Nick’s gone and hurt himself.

“Horrible,” says Nick. “I had to have Gills help me into bed. S’like I’m ninety. Never getting old for real. Never. No older. Declaring a thing, a… mmm, one of those. Also, I miss you. I rang because I miss you.” He tacks this on like an afterthought, but his voice is wistful, and it hits Harry somewhere deep. He doesn’t want Nick to miss him; Nick didn’t want him when he could’ve had him. And now that Nick’s said it, he just keeps going. “I just miss you a lot.”

“Miss you too,” Harry says casually, cutting Nick off as he curls his legs up and slides an arm around his knees, making himself small in the big hotel bed.

“When are you coming home?” Nick’s slurry, sad voice makes it sound pleading, and Harry shuts his eyes against feelings he’s tried to run from for the last five months.

“Second week of August.”

“I’m sorry,” Nick says suddenly, and the balled-up tension in Harry’s stomach twists tighter.

“Sorry for what, Grimmy?”

“I’ve not been what you needed all this time. I could have been, and I wasn’t. And I’m sorry. Harry, I’m so sorry.” It’s the painkillers talking, or the pain itself, or sheer exhaustion, or possibly all of the above. But the hurt in his voice is so real and plain and sudden.

“’S all right. Don’t be sorry.” It doesn’t help, he thinks to say, but that would only make it worse. Nick’s basically high, and he’d never say these things if he weren’t. He’d sounded so certain when he turned Harry down.

“Do you understand?” Nick says pitifully. “It was never that I didn’t want you. I always wanted you. I want you.”

Harry rubs his face against the soft edge of his shorts. He can’t ring off when Nick’s hurting and unhappy, but the temptation is so strong. He doesn’t want to talk about this, or think about it at all. “Don’t.”

“I know. I know what it’s like.”

You don’t, Harry wants to say. He wants to tell Nick off, but he can’t even do that. He can only pray Nick won’t remember any part of this when he’s not off his face on painkillers. “You need to sleep,” Harry says. “Can you sleep, do you think?”

“You remember the night of your birthday?” Nick interrupts. “When you came back to mine, I was so fucking close to kissing you. Wanted your mouth so much.”

“Sleep, Nick.”

“And your cock. Didn’t mean to touch you, just my hand got lost. You understand, don’t you? You understand.”

“Course,” says Harry, although he doesn’t. He would have let Nick have anything that night, any part of him, and Nick turned him down. Nick’s breath is heavy on the phone, and Harry tries not to think about why that might be. He tries to distract Nick by changing the subject. “I guess you’ll be on holiday when I get back.”

Nick hums a little, seems to come back to himself. The silence is long, but his voice is steadier next time, playing along. “Might be home though. Not in the mood to do much with this bloody foot.” He pauses, and Harry counts out two steady breaths. “You could come round. We could get a takeaway, catch you up on the telly. I’m sure you’ve missed loads of absolute crap.”

“Right. Yeah. Sounds good, mate. I’ll look forward to it.” He waits, awkward on the line because Nick can’t be trusted right now; he could tell Harry how many days it is till Great British Bakeoff comes back, or he could break Harry’s heart all over again and not even remember in the morning. And that’s the hardest part of being such good mates with someone you’re a little bit in love with—which Harry is, if he’s honest—they have everything they need to hurt you down to the bone. And you have nothing to give back.

After several long quiet minutes, it’s obvious to Harry that Nick’s moment of lucidity was really just that: a moment. Nick’s breathing evens out, and from six thousand miles away he listens to Nick sleep.

5.

Harry sends sympathetic texts and gets back several hours’ whining from A&E, with only a brief break while Nick was being x-rayed and had to have his phone taken off him because he refused to stop his important communications for the sake of his health. He makes it home late, and once Gils is out of his flat, he phones Harry to give a fully detailed account of his trials and tribulations. He calls them that too, and Harry smiles down the phone even though Nick will never see it. “Are you better now?” he asks. Apart from it being two in the bloody morning in London. “Don’t you need to get up for work, like, really soon?”

“Bunking off, aren’t I? I can’t walk, and I’ve got enough painkillers to put down a camel. I’m just going to lie here while I wait for them to kick in and be sad that all the beautiful men of Ibiza won’t get to see me in top form.”

“You’ll be in top form again by the time I’m back though, right?” Harry asks. “I promise I’ll appreciate it. I’ll appreciate it more than all the beautiful men of Ibiza combined.”

“Will you?” says Nick, barely managing to make a question of it because he sounds so smug. Harry wants to bite him for it, grab onto Nick and bury his face in some soft, vulnerable part of Nick’s body. But there’s an ocean and a continent between them, a sharp separation.

“Course I will. I’ll appreciate it for hours, days, until neither of us can walk properly.”

“Was that a joke, Harold?”

Harry thinks back on what he’s said and realizes he’s an idiot. “Well, now it is, yeah. Walking’s overrated though, really. Going places, pssh, who needs that?”

“Is that what you’ll think when I tie you to my bed?”

Harry presses the heel of his hand over his twitching dick. He’s let Nick tie him up before, silk scarves binding his wrists together as Nick made him come over and over again. “Yeah,” he says softly.

“Oh god,” moans Nick. “Don’t use the phone sex voice on me. Not now. I’m weak and vulnerable.”

“Isn’t that the best time to use the phone sex voice?” Harry pops the button on his jeans, tugs down the zip enough to get a hand inside. “I could touch myself for you. Take your mind off things.”

“Generous,” says Nick. He hesitates, and Harry doesn’t get it, waits out Nick’s silence as he rubs at himself through his jeans. “I might not be able to, um. With everything, you might be on your own tonight.”

Harry unzips the rest of the way and tucks the phone more comfortably into the crook of his shoulder. “S’alright,” he says. “I used to do this on my own loads.”

“Cheeky,” says Nick. “Are you hard already?”

Harry wraps a hand around his cock in the split of his flies. “A bit. We could Facetime and I’ll show you.”

“Noooo,” Nick whines. “I don’t want you seeing me like this. All the mystery will be gone.”

“I’ve seen you hungover though. And you can keep your camera off if you want. If you really want.” The truth is, Harry wants to see his face, hates the thought of Nick laid up in bed when he’s so, so far away.

“I’m peaky and pathetic and look like someone’s deranged old auntie, Harold. You’ll lose your erection in about two seconds.”

“Won’t,” replies Harry. He gives himself a few strokes, shutting his eyes and picturing Nick at home, in a bed that won’t smell like the two of them anymore. “Wanna see you.”

Nick sighs. “Fine.” There’s a shuffling noise down the phone and by the time Harry’s got Facetime opened up, Nick’s sat up against his headboard, his hair haphazardly combed, glasses partly hiding the dark circles under his eyes. The glow of the bedside lamp is soft against the dark, and Harry wonders how soon dawn is back home.

“You don’t look so bad,” Harry says. “Reckon you just wanted an excuse to skive off work.”

“That does sound like me,” agrees Nick. He gives a weary smile. “You look sun-kissed and lovely as usual, popstar. Even better than you do on the Mail website.”

Harry both loves and hates the ability to see Nick while they’re talking. He looks so tired, and Harry can’t cuddle him. “Did you want to, like, see my dick?” He’s used to doing this with his laptop, propping it somewhere while Nick watches him wank, and trying to find the right angle is harder with his phone.

“We could just give it a miss,” says Nick quietly, as Harry angles the camera down in the direction of his cock, stood up hard and thick in his hand. “You’ve got a nice willy, but if I’m honest, I miss your face more.”

Harry tilts the phone back up, meets Nick’s eyes an ocean away, and feels all tangled up inside, like he might cry. He bites his lip and nods.

“Oh no, none of that now. You have to be strong in my hour of need. Show me how you’re going to come for me soon as I get you back in my bed.”

“Nick,” says Harry, squeezing his cock as the words hit him down low. He strokes himself faster, a little dry, but that’s best at the start, feeling the drag of his own skin. There’s precome starting to well at the tip though, and he slicks it down the length of his shaft as he thrusts, hips working against his hand. Harry struggles to hold the phone steady, to not drop it, Nick watching him intently as he wanks. For a minute, the only sound is their breath.

“Talk to me,” says Nick finally. “Tell me how it feels.”

Harry takes a deep breath, looks at Nick’s strained, sleepy face. If he’s lucid enough to hold a conversation, he must be hurting. “Good,” says Harry, pausing, holding himself back from the edge. “It’s good. But I miss you. Your mouth. I want to. Nick. I want you to.”

“You want me to suck your cock, popstar?”

Harry moans and nearly turns his mobile off by accident, gripping it harder in his trembling hand. He tips his head back against the pillow. “Yeah. And kiss me. Kiss me.” He comes with his eyes closed and his mouth dropped open, imagining Nick’s lips parting on his.

Nick’s smile is warm and wistful when Harry looks up again. “Was that okay?” he asks. “Did it help?”

“Foot still hurts,” says Nick. “But you always help.”

Harry curls onto his side, ignoring the stripes of come on his t-shirt, the way his dick flops out of his open jeans. “You’ll be all right though? Like, you’ll just have the boot for a bit and then be better?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Can you sleep?”

Nick makes a face. “Maybe not. It’s really quite painful. Not even exaggerating. But I dunno, eventually. Once the codeine starts working.”

Harry shakes his head. “I’m awful at football, but you have to be the absolute worst goalie in the world.”

“Love you too, Harry.”

“Love you, Nick. No more sport things, all right? I don’t like this.”

“The WAG life is not for you,” agrees Nick.

Harry stays on the phone until he can see Nick’s eyes drifting shut, his voice slurring. “Sleep,” he says gently, because he can’t tuck Nick in and kiss him goodnight; all he has are words. But for now, that has to be enough.


End file.
